


clementine soup

by arleaux



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Akaashi Keiji-centric, Alternate Universe - College/University, Baristas, Bokuto Koutarou Being Bokuto Koutarou, Chance Meetings, Coming of Age, Dorks in Love, Fluff, Grandparents & Grandchildren, Konoha please don't leave chicken under the break bench, M/M, Mutual Pining, Reflection, Self-Discovery, Soup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-15 10:14:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29187639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arleaux/pseuds/arleaux
Summary: Akaashi Keiji comes to terms with losing his grandmother's old soup shop upon meeting Bokuto Koutarou: an athlete, barista, and student who seemed to be capable of everything he wasn't.A simple novelette for the hungry and the conflicted dreamers.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou
Comments: 10
Kudos: 32





	clementine soup

**Author's Note:**

> This one surprised me, as it took a good two weeks extra to get it done. I started this on February 4th and here I am twenty days later. I don't regret it though because I learned a lot about almost everything ranging from cooking, to Bunkyo, to myself. 
> 
> Thank you and enjoy.
> 
> (cw/ grandparent death mentioned).

Akaashi Keiji scrambled to roll his sleeves up and got to work.

The 19 year old wasted no time preparing the vegetables and sent onions, tomatoes, and carrots flying in every direction. When finished, he set the prep next to the spices, and coarsely, but not too coarsely, chopped some fresh bunches of parsley. He slid the vegetables into a 13-inch baking dish and set the heat at 218 C.

While the vegetables happily sizzled in the oven, Keiji placed a couple ounces of dried shiitake mushrooms in a boiling pot of water on the stove. He let them sit there for a moment, so that the ingredients could mingle with the water before adding the vegetables.

Finally, he mixed in the spices. This included parsley, thyme, bay leaves, vegetable scraps, and maybe a hint of salt if he felt it needed it. The aroma bubbling from his stockpot smelled like homey, savory, and robust. 

Keiji reduced the pot to a simmer and let it sit there for a while. He didn’t set a timer because he knew this recipe by heart. The boy liked soup, and soup liked him back.

What he didn’t like, however, was the ethics paper, literary analysis project, and observational science exam coming up all too soon. His laptop sat right by the stove, staring him down like his old high school coach. But, it wasn’t like he would fail the thing, or things plural; he just didn’t have time for anything else. 

The pot on the stove was actually the fifth recipe he'd prepared that evening. When Keiji’s grandmother passed away last year, she left him her most cherished possession: Mori Dashi, her tiny soup shop in the Bunkyo area. He mostly saw her inside the shop when she was still around, but the smile that beamed from her face whenever a customer asked for another cup told him she was happy.

Keiji checked the broth and took a sip from the ladle. Delicious, like everything obaachan wrote into her giant cookbook.

Really, he could sell the place. Every other member of his family recommended it, and strongly too. Business wasn't booming like it did in the 90's, not to mention he'd be free of school loans. Keiji liked the idea of not having to worry about paying off college, however, there was a deep hole in his conscience that echoed on and on about the loan of his heart in return. A part of it was the one and only Mori Dashi, and it was a piece nothing . The death of the business was inevitable, but guilt ate at him whenever he thought of being the one to pull the plug.

Hence, there he sat on a Wednesday, simmering broth and popping drugstore multivitamins like M&Ms. 

_Beep! Beep!_

The alarm, labeled _opening time_ , vibrated excitedly on the table until Keiji dismissed it. He flipped over the sign hanging by the window and carried each pot from their respective counters to the serving station.

He had a good feeling about this particular line-up. Keiji made five of his favorite soups: udon, tonjiru, Italian vegetable, French seafood bisque, and an herbal dashi blend. He expected around four guests an hour, which was better for his productivity than it was the shop.

As customers passed through, Keiji managed to finish the introduction and thesis for his paper. The shop’s hours were seven in the evening to midnight, giving him a good five hours to juggle classwork and attending to his guests.

The night continued on and Keiji started to notice how often people went back to the front to buy another bowl. Around 11:30, he rang up a woman’s second cup of herbal dashi. He expected the occasional late night diner, but hoped they expected the soup to be less quality than it was fresh.

“Will this be to stay or to go, ma'am?” He asked politely, pressing the order into the register.

“To go.” She paused, then continued. 

“Excuse me, but you’re Akaashi Keiji, yes?” 

“I am. I suppose you knew my grandmother?” He asked. 

She nodded. “Yeah, it’s been forever since I’ve been here though. Used to come here during middle school every day. I'm happy you guys kept my favorite on the menu after so long.” The customer gestured to the cup. 

“This one pairs well with nanohana and mustard,” he told her. “The store two doors down from here sells it. I highly recommend you try it if you come back.” Keiji slid over her container and she smiled.

"I saw on the sign outside that you'll be closing soon, like three months?"

"Yes, ma'am. Mori Dashi will still be open until then."

He wished her a good night and opened his laptop once again. 

Five minutes until closing, Keiji’s finger hovered over the submit button. He proofread his paper at least four times, so it was now or never. 

_Alright_ , he thought, _we’ll take the hit in three, two, one.._

“HELLO!” A loud voice shouted within earshot. Scared shitless, Keiji’s hand flickered from the submission tab to the close browser option.

He looked up and his gaze met some large ass clementine eyes. A tall jock around his age stared excitedly at the vexed student. “You got soup?”

_Of course we have soup, it’s a-_

“Yes,” Keiji replied. “It’s about closing time but there’s still a bit left. Take your pick.” He gestured to the bar, and the customer eyed the labels for each soup, humming excessively as he did so.

“Dashi?” 

Keiji sat up and spooned the last of the dashi broth into the bowl. He had been planning to take that back to his apartment with the nanohana, but silenced his uncommunicated pain in the name of courtesy. He served the bowl and had the customer pay. No receipt, just cash and a toothpick.

“Thanks,” he said graciously. 

Keiji nodded and grabbed a broom to sweep the floors. He was in the middle of forming a pile of dirt when the customer spoke up.

“Sorry, but the soup is kind of cold. Can you heat it up?” He asked, voice hopeful.

Keiji glanced at the clock that casually read midnight. “Of course,” Keiji responded. He walked to the guest’s table and grabbed the bowl. “I’ll be right back with your soup.”

Keiji disappeared behind the back doors of the small kitchen and let out an exasperated sigh. He understood that people get hungry at all times of the day, but walk in a minute before closing and complain that the soup is cold? He set the stove on the highest setting, poured the soup into a small pot, and swirled it around a few times before returning it to the bowl. The lights weren't off yet, so customer is king.

He walked back out and placed the bowl in front of his treasured customer. The other muttered a small thank you and took a sip while Keiji resumed sweeping.

“Uhm..” 

_Hmm?_

“Can I get some sriracha? It’s a bit bland.” 

Keiji shriveled on the inside, mortified by the request and dumbfounded by the comment. If he didn't own the place, he would've had the numbest stare. “Of course, uh _,_ I’ll be right there with that.” He placed a bottle on the table and bowed before returning to the floors for the second time. He got into the zone and spent a good fifteen minutes making sure no crumbs appeared if he turned his head and leveled himself with the floor. 

As he swept, he kept a light eye on his visitor every now and then. He didn't mean to, but he too felt eyes on his back. He couldn't literally feel it; Keiji just caught the other shooting invisible lasers in his direction whenever it didn't look like Keiji was paying attention. Was he watching him with malice? Waiting for him to do something wrong so he could report his restaurant? Keiji's worry piled in his stomach. 

“Uhm..” 

_Why?_

_Why at this hour?_

_There are 12 hours of sunlight in a day; 84 in a week. Within any of these hours, you could have been drinking a 300 yen cup of soup, but no, it has to be now, without the qualities of a midnight snack and without a decent side._

Keiji swung back around and waited for the guy to make his third request. Instead, the customer pushed his bowl aside and gave him a bro-ish thumbs up.

“I’m finished,” he stood and zipped the charcoal sports hoodie he wore. Keiji recognized the team, but didn’t keep up all that much with volleyball anymore due to his persistent schedule.

“I’ll walk you out,” Keiji said as a proposal. The customer assured he didn’t need to but Keiji insisted because it was late at night and he was the final beloved patron of Keiji's humble shop. Not that he wanted the guy out faster than his probable spike. Not at all. 

The customer stepped out of the shop and pulled the strings of his hoodie so that it tightened around his face a bit more. A couple strands of his white and black hair spilled from under the dark, thick cotton and lightly reflected the colors of the streetlights. They both bowed and Keiji wished him good night.

He stood by the window for a moment before closing up the shop and watched the other make it across the street. From there, he watched the chiaroscuro figure disappear. 

_Interesting guy_ , Keiji thought.

He wondered what could’ve enticed someone like him to drink lukewarm, “bland” broth at midnight, and then got back into his routine to finish cleaning up. Most of the soup was whatever was at the bottom of the pot, so he disposed of the leftovers and kept the pots in the sink to soak overnight. Closing usually fatigued Keiji the most. Endlessly scrubbing every nook and cranny of the kitchen worked its way into the joints of his elbows and the muscles in his shoulders. 

He didn't let the customer ordeal mess with his night. It was probably a good thing that someone chose his place to eat soup out of all the other shops on the block. If he saw the guy again, though, Keiji would definitely remember his god awful spice decision. And how "awfully" kind he was despite calling Keiji's soup out when he was at his limit for the day. 

Keiji locked the doors and booked it to the station. His rush to get onto his destination's last train was a consequence of closing even later than usual.

A ride and a few blocks into the night, he got back to his apartment in one piece and knocked out around three hours later with a textbook on his face. Drool smudged some of the text, but to Keiji, the sleep was worth it. Drool equated to not-horrible sleep, in Keiji's humble opinion. .

The stars swirled over his roof and the rest of Tokyo, and too soon, the morning arrived uninvited.

Mornings were either the best or the worst part of the day to Keiji. As for this one, Keiji’s morning was slow and peaceful, but turned chaotic faster than he'd ever imagined. He rose uncomfortably-comfortably from a couch that was older than he was in his one bedroom living space. The student spent so many nights on the two-seater that it kept his shape for hours before its cushions returned to their original state. 

After finally achieving full consciousness, he washed his face, showered, changed, and fixed the mess he made out of his hair from how he slept. Things felt good for such a time of day.

Time of day.

 _What time was it?_ He wondered.

He overslept. 

Then, Keiji was a tornado. He spun around the room, gathering every scrap of schoolwork he had laying around the apartment and stuffed it into whatever bag he had on the counter, then a few pens that he wasn’t sure ran out of ink. Hurried, he shuffled into his shoes and left his place, a sticky note still swiveling to the floor as he slammed the door.

The breeze hit him like a truck while he navigated the streets of Bunkyo. Tokyo's great big university wasn’t even that far from his parents house, so was freedom really worth moving out? Most of the time. So many fresh but unfamiliar faces walked in and out of his mind as eternal strangers. He felt like a ghost crossing the street. He may have thought he was, if his heart wasn’t pumping blood so furiously. At times like this, it must be flowing faster than any river.

He checked his phone: 8 AM. His class started at 8:05 and he was still fifteen minutes away. 

_No, no, no. Please, world. I thought we had an agreement._

_Wasn’t my alarm on?_

As he powerwalked, trying desperately not to scare passerbyers, he flipped open his phone to see that beautiful Do Not Disturb icon flicked on. He crafted a novel of curses and questions for the universe over and over again, and then again as he recollected how he switched the icon while on shift the night before.

Slowly, he stopped walking. As he took his final step, he was still three minutes away from his upcoming class. There was no point walking in there after introductions if he would be too embarrassed to talk for the rest of the lecture. Defeated, he looked around to gather his bearings. Keiji normally never stopped on this street, it being close to class but not a close enough spot to wait at.

His heart rate started returning to normal and it allowed him to remember how tired he was. Keiji felt a jaw clenching yawn creeping up on him. Eyes watery from the morning weather and fatigue, a tiny coffee shop shined blurrily in the corner of his eye. It was kind of cute; old, but in a style that reminded him of his grandmother’s- no, _his_ shop. Happy Owl Coffee and Co., the logo read. 

Despite the recent events of his morning, a shadow of interest bred in his mind he approached the charming establishment. He briefly looked into the window. The owner didn’t own a sign, just had the hours printed at the bottom of the door. 

_6 AM? Lovely._

Keiji gently pushed open the door and the heavenly aroma of coffee beans danced with his senses. 

The place was significantly warmer than outside, prompting him to loosen up his scarf by a centimeter. It wasn't warm in the sense that the room was stuffy. What would one define it as, toasty? To Keiji, definitely toasty. His nose quickly adjusted to the smell of the cafe and he caught undertones of roasted almonds and vanilla, complimenting one another like friends meeting for the first time. It filled him with a sense of bliss, rare to him but not the locals who couldn't get enough of the cafe's powerhouse caffeine. 

He walked to the counter, avoiding faces and admiring the decor. Thoughtfully commissioned art exhibited on the walls and local pottery held leafy plants that hung around the area, some of them blooming white peonies with the most vibrant centers he’d ever seen. The glass holding the shop’s fresh, flaky pastries sparkled and illuminated his reflection when he squinted at the chocolate croissant that lived its short life thinking it wouldn’t cascade into a human being’s stomach. Too bad, because Keiji planned on devouring it. 

“HELLO!” 

“Jesus fu- I mean, I apologize, hello.” Keiji forced out. He made a mental note saying he really needed to stop blurting out profanity when startled. This was a stranger he was talking to.

Nevermind that, it was the one guy. Clementine man. So he had both stuck up hair _and tastebuds_. Keiji thought it was neat, that was all. 

“Hi,” Keiji blurted once again as the realization struck him. He blinked in surprise and then acknowledged the rest of barista, like his larger than life stance and the look in his eye that envisioned endless possibility.

The customer, now his barista, shot him a smile from behind the counter. It was a simple smile, there should’ve been nothing special to it, but the eye crease accompanying it made the room feel toastier than it already was. On that particular morning, that Thursday, a part of Keiji wanted to soak in all the warmth that the gesture brought him like the cafe's peonies on a cloudy day. 

“Good to see you again,” the man commented. “What can I get for you, today? Saw you lookin’ at that croissant.” 

“Yeah, I’ll take one of those,” Keiji said. He skimmed through the coffee menu on the wall, not entirely sure what he wanted to drink. “What do you recommend, here?” He asked, assuming the other knew more about the best brew than he did. Clementine's ear perked, hinting his interest. He placed his hands on the counter and shifted his weight so to lean in. “Hey, could I surprise you?” He wiggled an eyebrow and Keiji raised his left one in response, curious about the request. 

“Sure, go for it,” Keiji’s eyes flickered to his nametag, “Bo..kuto-san.” Bokuto chuckled in delight.

“Cool, I’ll be right back. It’ll be ready at the end of the counter!” Before Keiji could object, Bokuto slid through the kitchen doors to grab a hand-mixer. He didn’t even pay for his order yet.  
  
Apprehensively, he moved to the end of the counter. There, he thought.

Bokuto seemed like a relatively charming guy. He was pretty loud, but he could see how girls would like that. He was also way too energetic for eight-thirty in the morning. There was no doubt that the guy was running off the same amount of sleep Keiji was. The cafe opened at six, which felt absurd but was probably convenient for at least half of Tokyo. 

_Bokuto-san, stranger-to-stranger, which part of Tokyo are you?_

Like magic, Bokuto returned from the kitchen with a steaming pot of _something_. “For this brew, we keep the beans in the kitchen,” he explained. He hastily grabbed a paper cup, did a little toss before catching it again, and poured the silky liquid until he was satisfied with the line it made near the top. He lidded it and slid the cup over. “Here. Benguet brew with vanilla. Unsweetened. No milk.”  
  
Keiji eyed the cup, then picked it up and swirled it around a bit “Interesting. No sugar? Did you predict I would order it black?” Keiji asked.  
  
“Just a hunch,” Bokuto responded. One eyebrow raised higher than the other, like he was waiting for Keiji to try it. Keiji took the hint and took a tiny sip, careful not to burn his mouth.

It was smooth. The vanilla only appeared when he clicked his tongue and all the coffee notes were both bitter and addicting. 

“I’ll take it that it’s good,” Bokuto said. “That’ll be 1100 yen, please.”

Keiji moved his lips from the cup. “Oh, right,” he uttered, and pulled his wallet from his still-open satchel, to which he hoped nothing fell out on his morning escapade. He signed his name on the receipt and handed it back to Bokuto.

“Thank you, Bokuto-san.”

“You too. Have a good one.”

He walked to the door and as he pressed on the handle, he looked back to the barista, who was returning his stare. Those clementine eyes reflected a bit of light from outside the window.

“Have a good day,” Keiji said courteously. Bokuto cracked one last smile, a smaller smile than the greeting one, and waved a little as goodbye. 

“You too, Akaashi.”

Keiji faltered a bit. He got his name? Well, it had been on the receipt, anyways. The lack of an honorific appealed to Keiji as odd, but he didn’t know what type of stranger Bokuto was. No two strangers are the same.

He stepped out of the cafe and headed back to his apartment, nibbling on his croissant on the way to the station. On the train, he watched the scenery fly past the window; nature’s frames passed like hand drawn animations or the choppy scenes of an old couple’s wedding videos. Every once in a while he closed his eyes after he looking too long because the constant motion made him nauseous. Despite the kick-boost of the chocolate croissant and the caffeine, a wave of calmness coursed through him as he leaned his head back on the train.

His project wasn’t due in person, which felt extremely good on his part. He’d have to make up for the notes, but the lectures are posted online, anyways. Everything was fine. Things were great now. Everything was okay.

He sipped his coffee as he ended the walk. It wasn’t too hot anymore and he could let it sit in his mouth a bit longer. He was glad he never tried anything like that coffee before, or coffee at all. Keiji was an avid tea drinker. A fan of any leaf on the planet with the regretful exception of pu’er tea. But for this (whatever the inverse of a special day was) day, this day was an estuary. It was where the stream met the ocean. The salt line that barred his ghost from the room broke, and now there wasn’t enough left to rebuild it. It was time for change. 

He turned on his phone and swiped to the notes app. Keiji thumbed in the characters with a certain person in mind.

**I need to work harder, faster. With a real smile, this time.**

**Like Bokuto-san.**

When Keiji got home, he tidied the place up a bit. The fiasco he returned to wasn’t appealing, so he cleaned until he could at least see the floor. He spent at least five hours, a break or two in between, studying for his big test coming up and highlighting a section from the study he was researching. He didn’t nearly have enough time to work on regular classwork that day, but he would’ve had even less if he attended the lecture. Relief and stress battled it out when his mind went on autopilot.

As soon as the clock read 3:30, Keiji slipped into a black t-shirt and headed for the shop. The ride there felt faster than usual, one of the positives of avoiding big wave commute hours. He arrived before four o’clock and started prepping.

Keiji decided on making four soups: tomato basil, Italian wedding soup, Locro de Papa, and the dashi blend.

Locro de Papa was an Ecuadorian potato soup blessed with onion, garlic, cheese, and cilantro. He had no idea what it actually tasted like outside of his own kitchen, but it satisfied his customer’s bellies like nothing else. On most weeks when he sold it, he even got avocados and fresh feta shipped to his apartment so that he could use it as garnish. The Italian wedding soup was, and still is, his mother’s favorite. She had him help obaachan make it whenever they were all together and felt like something hearty. Obaachan sometimes prepared nanohana to surprise them all. Didn’t totally match the meal, but Keiji loved it anyways. 

Three out of the four of the soups had a lot of ingredients, but he prepared most of the vegetables a day or two in advance, that way this hand wouldn’t ache both from his pen, laptop, and chopping knife. It wasn’t too bad a task getting everything out, but the whole counter was stacked with vegetables and seasoning on one side, and meatball ingredients on the opposite. 

He worked on the tomato soup first, then the Locro de Papa, dashi blend, and Italian wedding soup. Throughout the process, he worked automatically for some parts of the cooking. He’d done it so many times that if he closed his eyes while preparing everything, the same, delicious result would appear in front of him. He wouldn’t actually try that, but maybe he’d be able to make some yen as a magician after. 

Around three hours later, everything was simmering on the stove and he washed the pots soaking from the night before. He thought to himself that he should come in earlier the next time he used recipes so ambitious. People wouldn’t knock down his door if he was a bit late to open, but it would’ve made him feel off balance. 

Luckily, he got to flip the sign as soon as it opened. The sun started setting outside and the shadows of the lamppost by the shop’s window started to tilt with the lowering star. He watched through the glass, one elbow propped on the counter. Keiji tapped his fingers along the wood, searching for something to do despite feeling drained.

There must have been something he could do while waiting. School work? Check the inventory? Both? He was going to be productive. After all, the stream had met the ocean. 

Sooner than later, a customer walked in. Then another. Keiji assisted them kindly, just not Bokuto-kind yet. If he tried, he felt he didn’t have enough power in his stance or shine in his teeth, or a voice that could carry snowflakes in the air when he sang loud enough. For the moment, he considered it a work in progress. But he wasn’t like Bokuto no matter how much he tried to manifest that energy.

But that was fine, he guessed. Everything was fine. Everything was good. 

The door opened and bells chimed.

“Akaashi-kun, good evening,” a customer sang. It was Sugawara Koushi, one of his more loyal customers, maybe even a friend, who liked to stop by every other week. For Sugawara, Keiji made the soup.

“Hello, Sugawara-san. How are you?”

“Same old, same old. The preschoolers won't stop talking about grilled cheese day. Can I get two gallons, pretty please?”

“Like always.” Keiji granted Sugawara’s request and packaged the monster-sized order. He carefully slid the box to the other. “That’ll be eleven thousand yen, pretty please.” He loosely flopped his hand over to show his palm, skin eagerly waiting to touch some cash. Sugawara halted, then chuckled happily and pulled some notes out of his wallet. 

“Alright, alright. Take it.”

“Much obliged.” 

Sugawara started towards the door, then stopped, sympathetically, to call out to Keiji. “Take care of yourself, Akaashi-kun. I imagine your schedule’s pretty hectic.”

“Most days are better than others,” Keiji lied passively. “I’ll manage, Sugawara-san. Thank you.” They wished each other a nice day and Sugawara left the shop and lugged the order into his car. 

After serving a couple customers and a period of emptiness throughout Mori Dashi, Keiji resumed his research from earlier that day. No sounds could distract him from his paper. He’d already gotten used to the buzz of the air-conditioning unit that occasionally gets muted by work traffic and nightlife commotion. He immersed himself, enjoying the chance to make some progress. Eight pages later, he looked up to move a wisp of his hair to the side.

“Hi,” Bokuto greeted. He moved his hand to the back of his head and smiled. Bokuto couldn't tell, but Keiji’s stomach did backflips. He stood abruptly and bowed over the counter. 

“Bokuto-san, hello! I’m so sorry, how long were you waiting?” He shoved his work to the side and adjusted his cap, while Bokuto shook his head and waved him off. “Not long, I swear! Just got here.” 

“Ah, well that’s good then. What may I get for you?” He pointed his head toward the bar, eager to serve something up.

“I’ll get the dashi blend, again,” Bokuto announced. Keiji discontinued his business-owner mannerisms for a moment and shot him a skeptic look. “That one? Are you sure, Bokuto-san?”

“Yeah, it isn’t midnight so I’m sure it’s better.” 

Keiji thought silently that his dashi soup was _always_ good. Dashi soup was fantastic no matter the form. “I’ll prepare it right away,” he responded punctually. Keiji moved from the register and served up a cup. “Will that be all?” Bokuto nodded and Keiji rang up the order. 

As Keiji grabbed the card and the receipt, he noticed how he had a callous on his writing finger that Bokuto didn’t have. His hands lightly brushed against the other and sensed Bokuto’s palm had a roughness that the rest of his hand lacked.

“Here you go.”

“Thanks.”

Bokuto took his soup to one of the tables and sipped at it while scrolling through his phone and Keiji sat back down. As Bokuto stayed at the table, Keiji looked at him every now and then, curious whether or not he was liking the soup that time. During one of the instances, Bokuto caught him and sent a wave over, triggering a slight crimson glow in Keiji’s cheeks and forcing him deeper into analyzing whatever it was he was trying to read. _Damn it_ , Keiji thought to himself grubbingly. Out of all the instances in the world, this was when all the words on his paper start to look like gibberish? Sometimes, he wished he could turn emotions off like some lightswitch or those toilets people installed in fancy hotels.

The silence continued for a little while, but Bokuto ended it with a question.

“Is it just you working here?” 

“Yeah, it’s a family business but I’ve owned it since last year,” he explained briefly. Bokuto looked genuinely curious. He didn’t leave yet, which felt kind of odd seeing that he finished the soup six minutes ago. Bokuto seemed to just be texting people, so it was fine to Keiji before midnight.

“This part of town, you come here often?” Keiji asked in an attempt to be as un-awkward as possible, and it worked.

“Not really, I moved into the area like three weeks ago, but I go to the university around here. You?” Nevermind. Bokuto let that sit in his head for a second before he corrected his question. Keiji let a crack of a smirk show and moved to wipe down the tables.

“For work?” Keiji furthered. The other shook his head. “I play volleyball for my college team and we switched our practice spot onto this block." That explained how Bokuto discovered the place. He spotted it walking home after seeing the team. Soup wasn’t the best post-workout meal, but Keiji didn’t judge. More tips for the shop meant more time with it. 

“That’s cool, Bokuto-san, I played setter in high school. _”_

Bokuto’s eyes lit up, surprised, and he stood up to give the shop-owner a fist bump, which Keiji hesitantly met with his own. “Sweet, if I ever catch you by our gym we should practice or something."

“Sure, Bokuto-san.” 

Keiji didn’t take the offer completely seriously. It seemed like he’d always be at work or at his desk during typical practice hours.

Bokuto stood up and pulled over his hoodie, a sleeveless one this time with the university emblem. “See you around, Akaashi.” He left Keiji and went on with his night, and it continued like that for around a month.

Bokuto stopped by around ten at night instead of before closing and went with the dashi broth every time. Keiji even threw ramen into the mix twice, but Bokuto still didn’t shy away from his original order. Shouldn’t Bokuto be downing muscle milk or chicken and rice? Was Bokuto a mirage?

During those four weeks, Keiji couldn’t resist looking up from his papers when the other wasn’t looking. At some point, Bokuto stopped asking for sriracha and just drank the soup.  
  
It didn’t take too long for Keiji to realize that Bokuto got finicky when caught. He experimented somewhat by wearing his glasses for one day, and going without them the other. On the days he wore his glasses, Bokuto was definitely looking his direction for longer periods of time. And less jolty, too. The glare of the lens made it hard for Bokuto to tell whether or not Keiji saw him. Interesting guy.

Keiji never had that type of customer before, but he kind of liked it, even if he didn't go with nanohana recommendation.

During a few of his lectures, the idea of ordering the ingredients became a regular thought.

His customers seemed to be loving the soup at the time. One of the ladies who liked to visit pointed out how Keiji seemed to be looking better those days. He smiled and thanked her, but he kept it to himself how it was just a bit of concealer evening out his complexion. He made the sudden decision to buy a tube after considering more ways to look less like a zombie.

When the nanohana arrived, he made sure to try extra hard that day and get to the shop earlier. It would be prepared in bulk.

While preparing the vegetable, he tried his hardest to balance the fresh, sharp taste of it with the karashi dressing. An important aspect of making nanohana with karashi mustard was that nothing should be wasted. He used the water he boiled the nanohana in for the paste, and then topped it off with katsuobushi flakes. 

As Keiji tasted the final product, a soft exhale left him and his face relaxed. Chewing, he felt both refreshed and teary-eyed and Keiji scolded himself for being so sensitive about it. The nanohana was such a small project, but it tasted like obaachan’s, and there was nothing more he wanted in the world than to experience that once again. 

A few hours later, he served some to Bokuto.  
  
“Here, Bokuto-san.”  
  
Bokuto looked down at the dish. “Hm?”

“It’s a new side dish for the shop, on the house. Thank you for enjoying the dashi recipe. Enjoy.” He tried to bow, but Bokuto spoke up before he bent over. “That’s not necessary, Akaashi...”

“Sure it is. Bokuto-san, you’ve been visiting Mori Dashi every day.”

The other’s face grew intense. Apparently, he didn’t realize his new habit either. Keiji grew just as embarrassed for bringing it up. “I have, haven’t I.."

“You have,” Keiji confirmed. 

“Hmm, well that doesn’t really matter. No thanks needed, I just really like your soup," he stated proudly. He expressed a look of gratitude for the most part, but he quickly came up with something. “Actually, there _is_ one thing you could do.”

“Hm?” Keiji got a bit closer, eager to hear out Bokuto’s request. He noticed Bokuto’s ears went slightly pink, so he backed up to give the other some space. 

Bokuto cleared his throat. “Well, there’s this official match coming up and I have like five tickets to give out to people. You wanna go? I could use some critiques from a new pair of eyes, since you used to be a setter and all that jazz.”

Keiji thought for a moment. Would it interfere with study time? Time collecting revenue for the shop? How much money would he lose from the day off? Could he even take the day off?

“It’s the 19th,” Bokuto added, voice slightly hopeful as he slipped in that little detail.  
  
“That sounds good, Bokuto-san.”

“Oh, really?! Thanks, man. You’re a real one.”

“Sure. I’m excited to observe you play.”

Keiji didn’t know why he said that at the time. His test was the day after and he knew damn well he had a catering order scheduled the day before. If he sat down and thought about it, it could’ve been to get a taste of his old passions. But as he stood in front of Bokuto, he stood head empty. Almost ninety-nine percent of his mind just wanted a taste of what Bokuto’s other side was like - head in the game, working under pressure.

He wanted to know Bokuto like the inside of his palm, but it was hard within the constant setting they met at.

It was then when he decided to pay a visit to the coffee shop again. 

On his first attempt, he went after he finished class. His ethics lecture took a bit longer than planned, so he arrived at Happy Owl and Co. around ten-thirty. Bokuto wasn’t on shift, to his disappointment. So he ordered a green tea and checked his phone, planning his day in the background of his thoughts. He saw a multitude over texts from his mother and his face dropped. He opened up the app, slightly horrified at the possible news she had prepared for him.

 **Ma** Kun! Will you be off soon? 

**Ma** I need your help painting the fence for the garden. papa won't budge from the couch

 **Ma** Please 

**Ma** I’ll make the dinner this time

 **Ma** Keiji? 

**Ma** Kei

 **Ma** ji?

Relief. 

Hi, okaasan. Break will be soon and I can help you then. **Sent 10:44**

**. . .**

**Ma** You talk like him too

 **Ma** What are you doing on the next, next Friday??

Keiji read those texts over a couple times, then typed his response.

I will be attending a volleyball game **Sent**

 **Ma** for who, kun?

A friend **Sent**

 **Ma** i meant the team. :)

My mistake, sorry ma it's my university’s team. He gave me a free ticket **Sent**

His mother’s next text took a while for her to figure out how to type in one big chunk, so he sipped his tea and looked out the window. The text bubbles were still moving while an idea popped up in his mind.  
  
“Excuse me,” he called over to one of the baristas. The sandy-haired barista turned around and greeted Keiji. “Hi, what can I do for you?”

Keiji hesitated before asking, but continued while wording it carefully. “Actually, I have a question if that’s alright.”

“Of course, go ahead.” His name tag read Konoha, like leaves. 

“Do you know the employee Bokuto?" Keiji asked. "He works here, but I’m not sure what times he’s on shift.”

The employee lit up at the name. “Oh, Bokuto? He works from six to ten on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays. You just missed him, actually.”

Konoha saw a tinge of dissatisfaction on Keiji’s face. “Okay, then. Thank you, sir. I also have one more request.” He waited for Keiji to continue.  
  
“Don’t tell Bokuto-san I asked, if you could.” 

Konoha wasn’t used to that type of request, but shrugged and gave Keiji the okay. Keiji thanked him and left the shop while he still waited for his mother to text him back.

As he left, Konoha grinned like an idiot within the cafe. He almost burnt his thumb on the espresso machine cackling to himself. “You hear that, Bokuto?! How the hell do you even get admirers? I can’t even land a date with my girl and we’ve been in a relationship for a year.” 

Bokuto emerged from the little break room they had and took off his headphones, which played rhythmical whale sounds on full blast. “Dude… I can hear you yelling from the.. huh?” He rubbed his eyes and slid over to the other side of the counter. The two customers in the corner of the cafe looked at him kind of funny, but who were people who ordered their bagels untoasted to judge.

“Bokuto, one of these days the boss is going to learn you keep a blanket and three iPods chargers under the break bench.”

“You kept a rotisserie chicken under there for three days.”

“I _forgot_. It was for a holiday party, dude, you know that. Quit bringing it up he might hear you.” 

“Off topic,” Bokuto retorted. “So, what I miss during shut-eye?”  
  
“Someone asked for you. Can’t tell you what they look like though, it’s confidential.”

“Then why’d you wake me up?” Bokuto darted angrily. Konoha glared at him. That bench was so uncomfortable. There’s no way a guy Bokuto’s size could actually nap on the thing. 

“Whatever. Hey, don’t you have a class in half an hour?” Konoha interrupted Bokuto’s mental detective session. 

“Yup.” He slipped off his apron, grabbed his bag from a locker in the breakroom, bumped fists with Konoha, and headed in the direction of his microbiology lab. He wasn't sure which part of the class he liked more: the personality of his non-demon professor or the way they learned about some bad ass ever-evolving blob of cells every week.

Bokuto didn’t show up to the Mori Dashi that night and Keiji felt let down, similar to that morning. He shook it off and opened his textbook to where he left off. It wasn’t like Bokuto was obligated to come by every single day, he too worked and was likely up to more than Keiji was, but Keiji had started looking forward to ten o'clock, when he could pretend he was doing his notes and study the other. He flipped a page and grabbed his highlighter. 

While colored a few lines orange, he remembered that he didn’t check his phone for what his mother sent him. After he left the shop, he received a call from a classmate who saw him across the street. Keiji got the opportunity to study with someone with similar learning habits and the 'I'm struggling will you struggle with me' solidarity felt good. He closed the book and opened his phone.

**10:53**

**Ma** yay.. ji-boy is going out! And you’re making friends again. I'm happy to hear that.

 **Ma** Please, don't work too hard, okay?

 **Ma** And tell us if they’re any good, maybe we’ll hop on a train and watch a game with you. And text us more, I know you’re doing your own thing but mom’s ears are always open.

 **Ma** Have a good day kun

 **Ma** And I see everything please don’t strictly eat soup

 **Ma** Too salty

Keiji smiled at his mother’s remark.

Thank you, you too okaasan **Sent**

He resumed his note taking and prepared for finals.

On Wednesday, he had finalized his paper and was essentially finished studying for the exam. All he had to do was memorize any new content and keep practicing the different scenarios he recorded on the flashcards. 

Everything was fine. Things felt good. 

The bells chimed, and things felt even better.

“Bokuto-san, hello.” 

Bokuto seemed a bit worn out that day. His hair flopped lower than usual, and he was drenched. It was by no means raining outside, so Bokuto must have been on a run.

“Akaashi, hey,” Bokuto forced out, between breaths.

“What can I get for you, today?”

Bokuto wiped his sweat and pretended to think. “I’ll take the _ushe._ ” Keiji winced at the terminology. 

“Oh come on, wouldn’t anyone want to say that at least once? Let me feel cool, Akaashi!”

“Fine. But only this once,” Keiji gave in. “Your _usual_ is coming right up.” He ladled a bowl of dashi soup and served it with nanohana on the side. Bokuto handed Keiji the card and paid.

Keiji didn’t have much to do that day after completing his work like a speed demon. So, he contently hopped away from the register and served himself a cup of chicken and gnocchi soup. The gnocchi was particularly hard to make under time constrictions, but he was proud of how well it cooked. It was creamy in his mouth and much more filling than the broth he sipped in the afternoon. A stick to the ribs type of recipe that he craved watching sad movies or the news on a rainy afternoon. As Bokuto drank his soup, Keiji spooned his own concoction into his mouth and enjoyed the savory, garlicky base.

“Akaashi," Bokuto called. "Seat’s open if you want to join me.”

Keiji looked over to Bokuto, who was looking up from his phone. He looked left, then right. Well, no other Akaashi on the premises. “I mean, you don’t have to though. I’m kind of gross right now. Sorry for leaving sweat on the seat..”

Quickly, Keiji denied the reason for his silence and walked over with his soup. He pulled out the chair and lowered into the seat, careful not to spill the cup. Before he continued eating, Keiji took off his glasses so that the steam wouldn’t fog them up. “Thanks, Bokuto-san.”

“Eh,” that pink tint again. “I like the company.” He put his phone in the pocket of his joggers. Bokuto wasn’t wearing a hoodie, which was why Keiji could tell Bokuto had ran that day. His arms flexed whenever he shifted.

Tank tops aren’t “the usual” on this side of Tokyo, but Keiji didn’t mind. In his second year of high school he walked solely shirtless around his house, traumatizing missionaries and delivery people whenever he got up and answered the door. His cousins outside of Japan did so, so why couldn’t he? It wasn’t until his parents came home one night and saw him making ramen bare-chested that he stopped, because his dad got angry at the double standards regarding younger guys and older dudes. Even his mom jumped on the conversation. That’s how he purchased his first hoodie; a red one he wore practically every day outside of class. Keiji was glad he left that phase and actually took the time as an adult to dress. But when Bokuto’s arms flexed as he moved the cup to his mouth, he resented his high school self for not signing petitions for citizens Tokyo to not wear shirts both in and outside the house.

“Akaashi, are you alright there?” Bokuto shifted his head to the side to express his concern.

“I’m fine, Bokuto-san. Why do you ask?”  
  
“You’ve been doing that for like three minutes. You can look up, y’know.” From where Bokuto sat, Keiji had been staring at the bottom hem of his shirt while stuck in his thoughts.

“Hey, Akaashi.” He put the soup down. Keiji did so in return and gave him his attention.

“Are you seeing anyone?”

Keiji laughed at him, hard, and confused Bokuto with his odd, giddy off-nature reaction. Bokuto didn’t know his ins and outs, but Keiji definitely wouldn’t cackle like a movie villain on a regular basis. The moment Keiji cooled off a bit, he muttered a couple apologies to Bokuto, whose eyes were still lit with surprise and looked somewhat embarrassed. “Yeah, uh, no one’s ever asked me that before, but yeah. No.”

Before Bokuto could reply, Keiji continued. “Who are you asking for?”

Keiji watched Bokuto freeze up., but then he spoke. “One of my coworkers at the cafe. She,” he computed, “saw you yesterday talking to Konoha and was interested, and I see you like every day now so why not ask?”

Keiji stood up and threw his cup in the trash. In the midst of their casual conversation, he asked Bokuto if he wanted a glass of water, to which he said yes and drank it in short bursts. Keiji asked Bokuto to tell him about the barista and he obliged. 

“Well, she’s… tall. And has like abs and stuff. She also has long hair, wears it in a bun at work. Really nice, too.”  
  
“What’s her name, Bokuto-san?” Keiji asked. 

Bokuto’s heart bounced like a pinball in his chest. “..Ashley.”

“That’s a lovely name. Is she a foreigner, then?” Bokuto had no idea, but he had to improvise somehow, so he said yes. Keiji nodded and took a sip of his water. “Well, I am very flattered she took a liking to me,” he said. “But still, I will have to decline. Please let Ashley-san know that I wont be her type. I could refer her to another friend, though..” Miya Osamu was a decent enough guy. He would eat a piece of food from the cement of his terrace if he _thought_ no one was watching, but his onigiri was superb enough for Keiji to forget about it.

“Alright, I’ll definitely let her know then,” Bokuto said. Keiji wondered what peaked Ashley’s interest. It would be rude to ask, but it could benefit the shop if customers liked him more. He could never recreate the Bokuto's grin, or his spunk, so he hoped for some other naturally occurring, redeeming quality that could save his business. 

Before Bokuto left, he asked something out of the blue. Keiji paused from sweeping again.

“What made you quit?” Bokuto questioned. Keiji could already tell what Bokuto was referring to, so he thought for a moment and calculated how to answer. “School, job, the works. I’m majoring in literature, so time management is kind of hard.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah I get that too.”

“Don’t you juggle all three?” Keiji asked, hoping he didn’t sound overly-direct. “I mean, it’s impressive, Bokuto-san.”

“What do you mean?” 

Keiji fumbled with the broom, gears turning. “Practice, job, school..life? And you look sane.” He was nervous from how deep he made their conversation, and his nerves screeched when Bokuto freezed.

Then, Bokuto laughed. Keiji’s shoulders became slightly less tense. “All three—four?” Bokuto asked in between the laughter. “Hell no!”

That took Keiji by surprise. He pondered what that could mean. Bokuto crossed his arms and elaborated.. “I mean, things can’t be perfect all the time, right? I don’t know, high school me would be freaking out right now, but I’ve picked up a few things in two years. Right now, and probably for the rest of my career days, volleyball’s my _thing_. I worked out my priorities, found what stuck with me after an entire year of trial and error.”

“Then why go to college and serve Benguet coffee?” Keiji asked. He watched Bokuto shrug.

“The uni team helps me get seen by pro-leagues, and my uncle owns that cafe. I’ll stay on the team as long as I can before graduation, or if I graduate. I’m not built to do this forever, but I'm not totally out of juice so for now I'm giving it my best shot." 

“That’s a risky wager, Bokuto-san.”  
  
“I gamble with my life, never my money,” Bokuto stated confidently. “You’re probably pretty different from me, which may not mean much for now, but if I could give you some advice, it would be this, Akaashi, you're your own 'protagonist', or so to speak. The main character in the movies don't ha but it's real life so alternatively it's what I'd like to call you do your own shit. You don't have to strive to be the best to be that main character. Trust me, I tried when I was made team captain on my old high school team and it nearly destroyed me. D'you know I was, like, one of the top four aces in the nation for five minutes? If I wasn't so upset about not reaching higher, I probably would've gotten noticed by scouting teams but I ruined it for myself.”

Keiji felt empathetic. He was going to respond, but Bokuto resumed his unexpected little montage. 

“Do what you want. If there’s stakes, make it worth it. We’re totally not the same person, you seem like the more responsible type. And I have no idea how you live off soup. No offense but hey most days it’s sort of good for you and I even started drinking this broth without seasoning, but yeah. You got this. Even if you don’t, it's cool. Just get better.” 

When Bokuto finished, he said nothing after, hoping his words got to the other. Keiji sighed, mostly because Bokuto called sriracha seasoning but for different reasons as well.

Bokuto may have stated he was no genius, but it took a lot to conjure up real words, or real experiences instead of from that of others. And Keiji liked that a lot, he appreciated the smile, the reassurance, and the slight scent of vanilla even after Bokuto returned from practice. After Keiji spiritually returned, something Bokuto said felt off. 

“Bokuto-san… do you even like soup?”  
  
The sweat that had cooled on his forehead revived itself. “...Not really.” Keiji looked at Bokuto in shock.

And then a bit of rage. 

“Well then. I see. So, respectfully, what are even you doing here then?!” He exclaimed, and Bokuto backed up in his seat. “You wasted enough money on my soup to fill an entire freezer _,_ Bokuto-san, and you don’t even like it?! I, legitimately, cannot accept this. Are you supporting my business for this Ashley girl?” There must have been some type of fallacy to explain the situation. What page of Aristotle’s Sophistical Refutations would he need to pull up on his search engine?  
  
“No, no! It’s not like that!” Bokuto tried to explain. He struggled to formulate the words and Keiji wasn’t having it. He moved to the table and started sweeping again.

“I just..." Bokuto gave up. "You’re pretty. Like one of the most beautiful dudes I've ever seen and I've used my eyes _a lot._ Akaashi, like since I was born. Did you know that a lot of kids are born with vision problems? Most people's eyes are grey but mine were all yellow, according to the doctor, I was pointing at stuff. " 

The sweeping intensified.

“Bokuto-san…you drink my soup because I’m attractive?” Was that his redeeming quality that would save his business? He didn’t want to buy any more concealer because he’d just sweat it off in the kitchen. Quickly, he remembered he was angry at Bokuto. 

“Wait— that was shallow, which I swear I'm not, so I'm sorry but I also really—"

Keiji beat Bokuto at furthering their discussion by walking over to the soup bar and angrily ladling some of the chicken and gnocchi. 

“Eat this, Bokuto-san. You will eat it and you will _like_ _it_.” He shot daggers from the depths of his eyes, then his soul. Bokuto’s Adam's apple moved as he gulped. He didn’t move, so Keiji scooped up a spoonful and brought it to Bokuto’s beet red face.

“Eat. It.”

Slowly, Bokuto wrapped his lips around the spoon, chewed the gnocchi, and swallowed. “It’s.. good.”

“Ah, just how good?” 

“Good. Like really fucking good.”

“Good.” 

_Good, crazy you._

Keiji was going to make some some soup. And Bokuto would like it.

After Bokuto nervously finished the water and soup with Keiji staring him down, Keiji kicked him out of the shop. At first, Bokuto interpreted the turn of events as rejection. He sulked a bit, but Keiji tugged on his bag on the way out. "Bokuto-san, please come by tomorrow. Around the same time as usual." 

Bokuto electrified at his command, gratified and renewed. He bowed to the ground and his bag flipped over his back; thankfully, it was closed and Bokuto didn't have to go through another round of being an absolute mess. "Yeah, Akaashi! Do you want me to bring anything? Wine? Cake? I saw in this video where-"

"It's not a date, Bokuto-san." Bokuto sulked again. 

"I spent sixteen thousand yen extra preparing my soup for you this week. If you want to keep stopping by, then taste my other recipes and decide what you like."

"And if I don't?" Bokuto asked. 

"I'll ban you."

"Akaashi.." 

"I'm kidding, Bokuto-san." 

Keiji may not have known Bokuto for long, but he did admire his customer when it came to most things, or the exception of the soup. It was a grievance and he was in utter disbelief at the ambition. But Bokuto was charming, Bokuto was sweet, Bokuto was special.

And, still, despite the feeling that erupted in Keiji's stomach whenever his face even popped up in his mind, Keiji was unfamiliar with the extent of Bokuto's returned feelings, so he made sure to be careful approaching the matter. He didn't want to let Bokuto go without sharing an ounce of his feelings as well. Before they parted, Keiji held him back for one more moment.

"If you're available next Wednesday, I'll be around the cafe you work at. If you would like, we can get something to eat around noon, but only if you're in the area, Bokuto-san." Keiji squirmed where he stood, thinking of all the possible ways this could go. Bokuto was still elated by the fact he wasn't 86'ed from the shop, and he turned around eagerly.   
  
"I will split the _ocean_ to grab lunch with you. Now give me your number." 

"You're being dramatic," Keiji commented. The two exchanged numbers, but a problem arose when Keiji saw the contact name option. "Bokuto-san.. what's your given name?"

"Oh, guess we totally skipped over that part. Koutarou. You?"

"Keiji."

"Well, it'll be nice getting to know you, Akaashi Keiji."

"You as well, Bokuto Koutarou."

The night continued on and they went separate ways, pretending to be doing other things that didn't involve analyzing every word they exchanged within that last hour. Koutarou's first text was actually a change of plans. They were playing two matches that week and told Keiji he'd prefer if he went to the Sunday event in place of Saturday. Keiji replied that it was fine.

And then, when Thursday came and in the words of Koutarou's cafe mascot, it was a hoot

Koutarou was impossible, but was more than willing to carve a possibility. Though, it was only Koutarou stirring it up, because during the whole scheduled hangout, Keiji's mind had been nervously sifting through a bunch of other thoughts that he struggled to actively dismiss. His lack of ease began as he was prepping for Koutarou's arrival; things went smoothly, at first. It had been a decent day, and Keiji was happy to say that he was looking forward to seeing Koutarou. Then, mental forces interfered and he realized just _how much_ he was looking forward to it.

Apparently, his subconscious was preoccupied with Koutarou for a good chunk of the day. It was incredible how Keiji didn't even notice his constantly fleeting thoughts and introspections, but that was before a classmate pointed out how he wrote the wrong name on his assignment. Before that morning, he rarely excused himself from class; this was a time of new niches and unexpected changes in routine for Keiji. He even peptalked at his reflection in the mirror to get a grip before charging forward, back into the day.

When the time came and Keiji first invited Koutarou into the shop, Koutarou pointed out how "extra clean" the place looked. Then, panic instantly arose in Keiji. He did spend more time making sure the windows of the shop were spotless and even rewrote the menu so that the calligraphy was essentially calligraphy, but he thought it was subtle when caught up in the swing of things. 

And, what did one say when trying to flirt? Was he trying to flirt? What even was flirting? Keiji had never attempted such a thing in all his days, not even the one time a friend forced him at "spoonpoint" to try a dating app. His way of getting to know a person was by peppering them with questions, prodding them in the name of both science and Tinder. Did it make people uncomfortable? Did they think he was prying too much? 

The whole meeting was uncoordinated. Keiji didn't know what he was doing, since his place wasn't a fine dining restaurant, and he ended up with entire half gallons cooling down on the counter. Keiji had presented Koutarou with five types of soup, three of them he bought from other stores. He had too much work that day and it cut into his work time. The five were ginger garlic noodle soup, Locro de Papa, butajiru, kenchin-jiru, and sinigang. They all had different characteristics that Keiji could use to study Bokuto's palate: satisfaction, texture, brothiness, crunch, and heartiness. 

Their exclusive event wasn't the only thing utterly uncoordinated; Koutarou wasn't a fan of butajiru or kenchin-jiru and scrunched his face at the taste of hot, sliced avocado when trying Locro de Papa. He was a fan of the potato base, which Keiji had already determined after the gnocchi situation the other day.

At their session, what Keiji learned about Koutarou was that he liked meat. Meat was key. It was culinary excellence to Bokuto Koutarou. A hearty soup won Koutarou over.

Keiji noted this observation when he presented his sinigang, a soup he tried when he left Japan for the first and only time. He told Koutarou about it as he ate.

It was his senior trip, and he had gotten lost on the way back to his hotel. He got hungry after a while of walking aimlessly around the block and settled on a small vendor being run by an old woman and her grandson who visited on occasion. Both Keiji and the woman spoke barely-proficient English, but he could still point out how he wanted to order the soup she stirred from under the umbrella. She and her grandson reminded him of his own relationship with obaachan. While he felt homesick at the time, the kindness of the two made their interaction his favorite part of the trip. It was kind of funny when he looked back on those precious moments because it turned out the grandson knew a considerable amount of Japanese, and cunningly, he said nothing until Keiji rolled some pesos into the tip jar. 

He received both a new recipe and a friend that day all because he wanted to seek out the world as his own person. 

He may not have been as worldly as his other peers, but he felt that he got to experience some of the globe through food. One day, when he's not tied down in Japan by books and debt, he would see some of the places his friends found their true selves in. As they went off to Argentina, to the coast of California, to France, he always cheered them on, their postcards in one hand and a ladle in the other. 

His mother reminded him at every poor-planned get together that obaachan wouldn't want that for him. People called him a great listener and a thinker, but what would they say if he told the he saw himself as a seer and a poet? Obaachan believed in him, which meant more to him than anything his professors handed back on paper. She loved Keiji, she really did, but while he received unconditional love from obaachan, one of her greatest strengths beside her resilient mind and unbreakable heart was her honesty. 

Even then, he still felt the love. After a year, he felt it like a punch in the gut. He felt in the ladle, the book, the nanohana, and himself. He felt it so strongly that he would be evicted from his apartment before he would kill the crawling dream she worked to hard to keep alive. His own wouldn't be for a while, but the one he walked in and out of for years was fluid, comfortable. That love, he felt it.

While sitting with Koutarou, Keiji proposed that one of his differences was that he gambled with his money, never his life. His life was that love.

Love for obaachan, love for the friends he hadn't seen in a year, love for his passions, love for himself.

So, stranger-to-stranger, Keiji asked Koutarou what love meant to him. He said that love meant life. 

Their philosophies may have differed, but Keiji liked that.

Koutarou put down his bowl. 

"That was good."

"How good?" Keiji asked, smugly egging the other on.

"Good good, like _that_ good." Koutarou's eyes widened in the middle of "that" and swirled his hands through the air. Keiji laughed and grabbed the bowl.

"Oh?"

"Can I have seconds?"

"So _that_ good, huh, Bokuto-san?"

"Yeah, Akaashi. I liked it.. almost as much as yakiniku."

"Almost?"  
  
"I already told you I'm not a soup guy!" Koutarou defended his stance, thumb pointed to his chest. "However, this one was.."

"Rich? Vibrant? Palatably bitter?" Keiji asked, hand gripping the table.  
  
"Yummy."

That was the breaking point. Without thinking, Akaashi Keiji pressed an unquestionably fat kiss onto Koutarou's cheek. It was totally out of his control, inevitable because on his account he slipped. Even he knew that was an awful lie; floor sweeping was practically therapy for him. 

Did he elaborate any further? Of course not. Koutarou sat there colored like the Kool-aid packets he hid under the cafe work bench, while Keiji launched from his seat to grab the mop and wipe away the soup oasis. 

His felt his crush increase exponentially whenever he looked the other's way, so he kept his eyes on the floor. "Would you like me to text you the details for the date tomorrow morning?"

"Ah.. so it's a _date_ now! _"_

Keiji never mentioned it was a date. He told himself it wasn't a million times while thinking of where to take Koutarou. Was it, once gain, totally out of his control, inevitable because on his account he slipped? It was not.

After the first slip, that inevitable burst of raw affection that tossed Keiji's heart around and made him feel like a teenager again even though he still technically was one, he called it a date. He referred to it as a date in his head for the rest of that night. 

And when the date came, Keiji got to see more of Koutarou in his element. He lit up whenever he talked about good times with his teammates and friends at the university. His ambitions were sky high, but he dug himself a way to do it through crazy means and at some point even cartwheels. As Koutarou showed Keiji a few pictures on his phone, Keiji learned that the other was a hugger. Almost every match in his gallery ended with Koutarou's strong arms embracing the players. No matter how intense the victory or anguishing the defeat, his hugs were a thank you for an enriching game that brought him further along his journey.

Koutarou treated Keiji to one of those hugs after that lunch. He found himself wrapped like a big, affectionate present. Caught up in that feeling--it felt so good-- he stayed there for a moment, resting his chin on the other's shoulder. "Bokuto-san, can I ask you something?" He asked, still enjoying the hug. They stood outside of the restaurant and countless people were busing past them to return to their respective offices. "Yeah?" 

"You said the other day that love to you meant life or something along those lines. Would you mind elaborating on that?" 

Koutarou did the unexpected. He moved forward and returned that soul obliterating smooch on the cheek, the same one from their other late night rendezvous. 

"Guess you’ll have to wait and find out," he whispered to Keiji, loud enough for Keiji to hear him over the street commotion and quiet enough for him to forget every glance that went their way on the sidewalk. "I'll see you at the match, alright Akaashi?" 

They parted ways once again and Keiji returned to the zone. Draining paperwork for school, painful paperwork for the business, monotonous paperwork for the apartment. He must have rejected a Hogwarts letter too many times, because all of those envelopes and documents came crashing through his emails and his door at once. In his mind, he was close to both success and failure, but thankfully he did well on his projects. Keiji wasn't completely sure how he managed to complete them when with Koutarou filling an entire compartment of his mind, but he knew some things or two after the endless hours of interpreting poems and old books. 

What was his element? Keiji didn't know what type of person he was anymore. He wished he was like Koutarou, who knew what it meant to feel like moments were profound and even found himself after high school. As Keiji reflected more, his mind kept on returning to one thing.

If Koutarou stated he wasn't perfect, Keiji should believe him. A crush is a crush; the concept hides weaknesses. Koutarou didn't hide his weaknesses, anyways. He shared all of his past and current ones because it was important to him. He didn't need to be surrounded in a false sense of superiority to feel perfect, for everything worked out if he jst let it. If Keiji's hurt was a weakness, he needed address it. Was he, really, ready to address the address? He prayed he did. Time was running out.

Mori Dashi, 5 Chome-25-18 Hongo, Bunkyo City, Tokyo. He loved saying that when referring people to his restaurant. Just himself, too. He loved it so much and he wanted the world to feel okay with that.

Keiji finished his work a bit earlier than usual again. Everything was good. 

Time passed and he did whatever he needed to do to get through the week. The catering was a bit tiring, but he squeezed some time into his day to get other work done and take some time for himself. He even wrote a letter to his old penpal.

And school was a privilege, he couldn't believe he almost forgot that. After all those papers and creative works of obligation, writing for himself felt weird. Was the hobby, too, like his traveler friend? He enjoyed the words he wrote on the paper, it renewed him like his cooking and his mom's texts.

In his head, he thought up Koutarou's million dollar smile, excited to see it again. 

The game; it was the first he'd been to ever since he quit the sport. Keiji had dreamed of training with college players when he was at the height of his high school career. Watching from the bleachers, those guys were just like him at present moment. Strong willed, stressed, and sweaty for some reason and the game hadn't even started yet. They were Koutarou's teammates, why did they look so worried? 

Keiji scanned the court for Koutarou and there was no sign of him. Then, the opposing team entered the gymnasium and the audience felt their intimidation. All twelve of their players towered over the net like skyscrapers, so no wonder Tokyo's team was going through the ropes; they were tasked to scale mountains. When the audience thought they had enough of anxiety, that's when he walked in. 

Koutarou's presence transformed the gym. Even from all the way up there, Keiji felt the breaths of Koutarou's teammates escape. All eyes were on him, as they should be. Everything from his walk to the spots he scanned around the gym was confident, decisive. What ran through his mind? Keiji didn't have a clue. After the commotion settled down, the gym fell completely silent. The teams lined up and greeted one another, emphasizing sportsmanship above all else.

The chemical reaction of the crowd's roar initiated as the match started. At that point, wherever Keiji looked was due to muscle memory. He knew damn well where the ball was headed; once a setter, always a setter. The intuition was there, but things were so fast paced as he watched as an outsider.

If he was on the court, he would've gotten a bit closer to the net than the guy tossing to their middle blocker. That teammate was definitely talented, but it was hard to gain perspective as a player on the court and Keiji knew that well. He saw him trying his hardest, and Keiji grinned at his fellow setter. He knew that in volleyball, trying your hardest always had the potential to beat out scary tactics or brute strength. 

Koutarou shined from where Keiji sat. He shined from any direction. 

He wasn't the captain, or the ace for that matter, but he had the soul for it. In the midst of their struggle, Keiji watched their coach call a time out and they paused the game. The six in rotation wearily huddled and discussed what went wrong and what went right. It was inaudible, but Keiji had a good clue what it was.

They were outmatched, completely. 

There was potential in his fellow setter and in all of them. At the end of the day, though, luck was still a thing, and it sucked sometimes but it didn't mean _they_ did. Keiji saw Koutarou's eyebrow twitch slightly from the pressure, but he was sure Koutarou had the same hint of optimism that he had from the mannerisms he paired with his speech before the game continued. The group patted one another on the back and resumed the match.

As it progressed, the points increased, but the opponent still kept their lead. Much of the audience had a fire set within them, cheering for their favorite players at the top of their lungs and many families and friends visiting for Tokyo's rivals shouted their university motto for the captain. No matter which team owned the court, support like that was powerful. Those uplifting actions only made that team even more of an efficient force. 

As Keiji watched, he started paying attention to the numbers more. The University of Tokyo was still three points behind but were going strong. A majority of their crowd had converted to rooting for the opponent, which stung Keiji, especially after remembering similar experiences like that from high school. Even after the world turned their back on them, team Tokyo fell with grace. It was extravagant how their libero rebounded even forty centimeters too close to the line, or how their left middle blocker made it over his 6'9' opponent in time to even touch the ball. Still, where was their support, the loyalty from the fans who had come to see them? 

Bokuto Koutarou was that support, just like he was to him, and Keiji wasn't sure that he liked that this time. Was he used to it?

How many times was Koutarou going to have to lift up the others before he too ran out energy? Was this how it was going to be forever? It didn't have to be, and Keiji didn't want it to be. For what felt like the millionth time, Koutarou inspired Keiji. He stood up when the rest of the crowd fell silent and cupped his hands around his lips to shout as loud as he could. Akaashi Keiji was never the loudest one in school or in his family, but for Koutarou, he would be his own megaphone.  
  
As he opened his mouth, however, a whistle pierced the air and the crowd erupted in a proud tsunami that drowned his words out. 

Koutarou turned around to meet eyes with the guy he liked. It may have been for an instant, but it was the best he could offer as his abilities were strained by the weight of the match and the quickness of he ball. Within that instant, he flashed his last smile before the match ended. Keiji sat back down, and muttered what he wish he could shout to the ceiling. Bokuto Koutarou, wing spiker, outside hitter, so this is what player you are; an amazing one, just like your person.

Koutarou's gift from a moment ago wasn't a smile of warmth, or confidence. It was reassurance, because as Koutarou's world turned faster and more chaotically than spinner top, everything was good, even better than good, to Koutarou. The coaches blew their whistles and the match ended. 23-25, the board read. 

The rest of the team collapsed as Koutarou stayed upright, but slightly bent over his knees. The endless sea of strangers swarmed around him and the court, navigating exits and their favorite players. "Bokuto-san," Keiji called out from a few feet away. He stood on the side of the court while holding his messenger bag that slightly grazed the ground. 

"Akaashi, hey," Koutarou greeted. Keiji took a few steps forward and pulled an unopened bottle of water from his bag. 

"Here, you look tired. That was a really good game, Bokuto-san."

"Yeah, but.."

"..But?" 

"..But did you see that freaking super cut shot I just did? I've been trying to nail that forever. I'm really not kidding, seriously. I almost couldn't believe it when it actually worked!" He seemed to have a lot more energy than Keiji thought; he expressed his excitement by making airplane dives, and Keiji snorted drinking the other bottle he'd brought. "I'm happy you enjoyed play, Bokuto-san."

"Yeah, it was a good game. I learned a lot playing the captain and number eleven this time, so I think we'll at least tie next match. And, damn, d'you see their setter?" Koutarou pointed over to the winning team. "He learned something in the middle of the match too, I saw it."

They walked out the stadium, and he continued marveling over the details, both what made him struggle and what he succeeded at. To Keiji, the loss didn't feel completely deserved, but Koutarou narrated it in a way that helped him understand what he didn't see off the court. Everything he pointed out emphasized the way it wasn't only the setter or the libero's job to be observant. And again, when Keiji still felt an ounce of doubt that they deserved that loss, the fact that those observations existed made defeat worth it. 

  
Defeat. Will it be worth it, Keiji? 

  
With time, it will. 

  
What was it that Koutarou wanted you to see, Keiji?

With time, you'll know. 

That time was a nights later, when the he was tired from signing papers for the shop and slept on a few fleeting thoughts. It didn't take him too long after becoming well rested when he realized that it wasn't Koutarou's first time losing to that team. He likely even expected to lose. Bokuto Koutarou never failed to surprise him. 

Koutarou didn't turn any pages in Keiji's book, but he was there to help him do it. Where the stream met the ocean, he was the one who held the bucket. Keiji's flame would have been buried in discussion posts and his unrecognizable floor if Koutarou had never stopped by for soup at midnight. Koutarou had the ability to remind people that those things still burn, even when dim. At the end of the day, observing Bokuto Koutarou helped Keiji strengthen himself, body in mind, for anything. 

Like when Mori Dashi fell hard.

At that time, Keiji tried to unlock the doors one morning and it just wouldn't budge. It was after an hour of confusion and calling the locksmith when he learned that the day had finally come, and the address 5 Chome-25-18 Hongo was a mere name on the side of the road. The movers came by surprise and took care of selling all the pots and pans, all the stoves, and most of Mori's cherished items. That was the last time he would zoom through that street at seven in the evening, but he didn't feel empty about it because he still had his favorite thing he had ever received from obaachan: the ladle, her honesty, and his inspiration. 

He accepted his defeat, and in the eyes of both Koutarou and himself, with time it would mean victory. His medal was the knowledge he gained after letting go, the places he'd finally see, the new topics he'd share with his pen pal, and the dream of his own, or the one obaachan really wanted him to cultivate. The pieces of his love that he had to return to Bunkyo made its own little shop in his heart, living on through the recipe book, which he eventually added pages to after trying new soups during college. Koutarou grew to tolerate soup, as it gave him more excuses to make random visits at Keiji's apartment. With enough practice and sriracha, he eventually enjoyed making it as well; he especially enjoyed the stories behind the recipe. Toward the end of that school year, plenty of those stories were told by the both of them. 

What was Koutarou's favorite recipe of them all? Keiji didn't know. He liked sinigang, but he never stated it was number one on the list. That was because his favorite wasn't in the cookbook and he couldn't pour it in a bowl, either. His favorite soup was the one with the best story— their story. 

Clementine soup: Keiji and Koutarou's greatest recipe with the taste of loss, the smell of love, and the feeling of gaining something greater when they give their all. 

A soup for the learner and the champion.

**Author's Note:**

> Love you all. Don't you dare forget that you're fantastic and have beautiful things waiting for you. (P.S.: anyone spot the movie reference Bokuto made?) 
> 
> You can find me on Twitter [here](https://twitter.com/solarmye)
> 
> Thanks for reading - Mye.


End file.
